


Sweet, Sweet Lure

by stupidmuse_hatesme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Sirens, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidmuse_hatesme/pseuds/stupidmuse_hatesme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was not a musical man, so when he began hearing a classical violin in his dreams, he began to question his sanity. When that violin became hopelessly entwined in his life, he gave up and let himself be swept along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet, Sweet Lure

**Author's Note:**

> I thought--okay, Sirens are traditionally female creatures. That's one rule quite happily broken. But can I picture Sherlock singing all creepy like in john's dreams attempting to cajole him into crashing upon some metaphorical rocks? Nope. So I broke that rule too. So here you have it--a siren who plays a violin. Enjoy ;)

John Watson was not a musical man. By that, he meant that he listened to contemporary music only very casually and classical music not at all. Therefore, it was a surprise when the quiet army medic began to hear a violin in his dreams. The first morning he awakened on his cot with the fading strains still in his ears, he idly wondered whether he had actually heard a violin in person before. He quickly put it from his mind, though the happy tune buoyed his spirits throughout the day.

The violin played tunes the doctor had never heard, even vaguely, before. Its joyful song wove through his dreams and lulled him into the best sleep he had ever experienced. It was strange, and not only because he was in the middle of a war. It was because John felt like there was a _person_ behind the violin's song.

It was clear to John that the person was happy and joyous. He made the violin sing like a bird swooping through the sky. The song was a celebration of freedom. Of choice. Every morning that John woke to after hearing the stringed instrument was bright and beautiful. The song was hopeful and gay. John's first urge upon waking was always to go and find whoever played the song that was so full of life.

John always brushed the idea away, discounting it as the height of foolishness. The violin was only in his head, after all.

For a while the song continued to be happy, then a mournful note was introduced, like the player couldn't find what he was looking for. With each dream the song became more sad and seemed to lose hope. After a while, the violin's song was no longer happy at all and John never heard the heart-lifting song again. Instead, yearning pervaded his entire being as the violin mourned.

* * *

John wrenched himself from his nightmare to find tears running down his face. Not from the nightmare itself, but from the sad song playing behind it like some depressing soundtrack.

He wished that the violin was anything but so sad, but he had not heard the violin sound happy in years. The music sounded like heartbroken sobbing. The violin mourned over and over in his dreams as if the play was missing something vitally important.

A wound had grown in John's chest like an abcess that oozed slowly. Atop of his wounds from the war, John nearly couldn't stand it.

He knew that he was supposed to be writing his blog like his therapist told him to, but the violin's sorrowful song just wouldn't leave his head. His hand strayed to his Browning hidden in the desk drawer, but he eventually put away his laptiop instead.

He limped out of his tiny flat with yet another heart-breaking refrain ringing in his head.

* * *

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

* * *

If John had hoped that living in a flat with someone else would stop the violin playing in his dreams, then he was proven wrong. Up in the attic at his and Sherlock's flat on Baker Street, John heard the violin's song on most nights. He lay in his narrow bed, dust trying to choke him in the small and neglected room, and spent his nights hoping he wouldn't sleep, or, if he did, waking in the middle of the night because of the mystery song.

It seemed as though someone's soul was crying out in pain through the keening song. John's skin would shine with sweat as he panted, affected by someone else's sadness, but the sitting room downstairs would always stay silen.

John never heard a peep from Sherlock at night, despite his warnings.

John wasn't a very talkative man, so it took weeks of restless nights and building curiosity for him to finally speak to Sherlock regarding what he had previously mentioned. He wasn't someone to be rushed, though, so he took his time.

“Good morning, Sherlock.” John padded down the stairs in a shirt and pyjama pants and yawned. “Up to much?”

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said without looking up from the newspaper he was frowning at.

John scratched his belly through his vest and ambled past the sitting room to the kitchen. “Tea?”

Sherlock grunted. John took that as a yes.

John went through all of the motions, but his mind was preoccupied as he fetched water and switched on the hobb. It wasn't unlike prodding at a sore tooth with his tongue, prodding at an idea even though he wasn't entirely certain what it was or why it was bothering him. Nonetheless, he just couldn't stop mulling it over and had been doing so for quite a while.

“You might as well say it,” Sherlock called from where he hadn't even bothered moving from his chair. “I can hear you thinking from the other room. You better just spit it out before your brain overheats.”

John sighed, but it was with a fond smile. He left the kettle on the hob and turned to Sherlock, bracing himself to speak. “You mentioned a violin,” he began.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

The tension in the flat was high enough that John looked at the kitchen table rather than Sherlock in the other room. “I was under the impression that you'd play it at all hours, but I've never heard it. Do you actually own one?”

Sherlock's silence was nearly deafening, then he laughed. “I play,” the detective finally said.

“Do you?” John asked curiously, setting out some mugs and scanning its contents.

“Hmm...” John agreed. But secretly wondered what Sherlock was hiding.

That night the violin was particularly depressing. Halfway through the night John woke with tears running down his face. Curious, he wandered down the stairs to find the sitting room empty. “Sherlock?” John called out into the dark flat. “Are you home?” He cracked open Sherlock's bedroom door, but it was empty. The wailing violin rang in his ears even as he returned to the sitting room and curled up on the sofa around the Union Jack pillow. The mournful song followed him back into sleep.

When John woke, a violin case sat upon the coffee table in front of the sofa. Light was streaming through the windows, so Sherlock must have come home around dawn.

“You can look at it,” John heard Sherlock say.

John raised his eyes from the well-worn case to the intensely focused detective sitting, in the chair opposite, with his hands steepled in front of his face. John blinked. “Look at it?” he repeated.

Sherlock gestured impatiently. “Well, go on. I know you're curious,” he dropped his voice, “goodness knows why.”

John yawned before slowly swinging his feet around off the sofa and sitting up. His jaw cracked as he yawned again and flexed his sleep-stiff hands. “You could just get it out yourself,” John said even as he reached for the battered leather case. He glanced up at Sherlock but the detective only waved a hand at John, impatiently urging him on.

Since he was getting such bald encouragement, John brushed aside the fact that Sherlock avidly watched him with an unreadable look in his eyes. He flicked open the catches with steady hands. The violin wasn't new and had worn marks where Sherlock had held it often, but it was obviously well-cared for. He tried to use the deductive skills that Sherlock had been trying to pound into his head and began to speak aloud.

“I don't know a lot about violins. But this looks like good quality. It's also old, at least twenty years,” he looked up at Sherlock who had a brief look of disappointment flash across his face before he answered.

“Yes,” was all he said.

John frowned and reached into the case with another brief glance for permission—which Sherlock answered with another negligent wave as he slumped into his chair, eyes rolling up to the ceiling in boredom. John lifted the violin, carefully, in his calloused hands and marveled at how light it was.

“It wasn't your first violin,” John continued. “There would be scratches from carelessness if it was the violin you learned on—this is a precious gift.” He put the polished violin back in the case looked at Sherlock again. His eyes had drifted shut and he looked as though a potentially exciting case had turned out to be a lost puppy instead.

John didn't draw away from the violin and instead let hesitant fingers from his left hand rest on the instrument as his own eyes drifted shut. “I'm not musical, Sherlock, so I don't know what you're looking for.” He held his breath for a moment, then decided that he might as well continue. The worst Sherlock could do would be to scoff and call John overly imaginative and that would be that. “But I can tell you this,” he let a breath out. “I hear the most beautiful violin in my dreams. I have for years. But it's just so...” he swallowed and made the mistake of opening his eyes. Sherlock was once again elaning forward in his chair with a predatory glint in his eyes.

“What is it, John?” he urged.

Choked, John forced the words out. “It's just so _sad_ ,” he murmured. “All the time, it's so sorrowful that I want to never sleep again. Or I want to fall into a dreamless sleep and never wake up. The violin mourns, and I don't even know why.”

Something bright flared in Sherlock's eyes as he pinned John with his stare. He reached across the coffee table, their gazed locked, and slid his hand against John's as he grasped his violin.

John had felt nothing when he had touched the wooden instrument, when he suspected that Sherlock had expected him to, but when their skin touched a jolt shot up his arm and sent him sprawling in his chair.

When Sherlock set his bow to his violin, it _sang_.

It rang of hope. John felt like a romantic fool, but as Sherlock stood from his chair, instrument ringing out, all he could see were the pale and delicately long fingers dancing along the strings and the sunlight glinting off of his dark and curly hairs. The song started off sad, but as the mad detective stepped up onto the table beside his instrument case, the tune shot into the atmosphere. It thrummed through John's blood speaking of hope, sorrow, searching, _loneliness_.

The song was Sherlock's soul.

John wasn't in his body anymore. He was playing the violin with Sherlock, he _was_ the violin. Sherlock's fingers were running up and down his skin, his breath was John's breath, they were connected they were one they were intertwined together foreverneverapart.

Sherlock was looming over John's chair and kissing John as if his life depended on it, his violin hanging from one hand and his bow resting across John's shoulders, pulling him ever closer. His mouth owned John's so hotly and passionately that John couldn't even muster the braincells to protest or wonder what was going on. He could only hold his mouth open and welcome the onslaught as his flatmate dug the bow into the back of his neck and let his violin hit the rug with two thunks and a twung.

John thought that there was something else he was supposed to be thinking about. He knew that there was. He tried to pull back from Sherlock, who only pressed closer, and mumbled, “Wait, just wait. Hold on.” Simultaneously, he pawed at Sherlock to push him back and clung to him to keep him close. “Wait, Wait.”

Sherlock pressed forward and raised his empty hand to the nape of John's neck, threading his long fingers through John's short blond hair and twisting the strands around his slender appendages. He growled into John's mouth and practically clambered into John's lap.

“Sherlock!” John finally exclaimed, pushing his flatmate far enough back to insinuate a hand between their faces and smothering all oncoming kisses. “What _is_ this, exactly?”

“I was calling for you, of course,” Sherlock said, digging his bow into the back of John's neck hard enough that the doctor assumed that he would have bruises later. “With my song. Quite rude of you not to respond, frankly.”

“Wait, what?” John demanded breathlessly. “What are you talking about?”

“No matter,” Sherlock said in dismissal. “You're here no, let bygones be bygones.” He lurched forward in an attempt to bypass John's hand and return to snogging, but John pushed him back again.

“No, not 'no matter.' What do you mean by 'calling for me?'” He landed both palms on Sherlock's chest in an effort to hold him back as the detective strained towards him.

“The violin in your dreams,” Sherlock growled, the low sound hooting straight towards John's groin. “It was mine. You are mine. Only you can hear it.”

“What? Why?” John's hands began to lose strength against the unstoppable force that was Sherlock and he was vaguely aware that his flatmate was stooping closer.

“I can lure anyone, of course. But you will always hear my song. I will always be able to call for you.”

John closed his eyes, trying desperately to sift through the information being dumped on his lap, and remembered what the violin had sounded like in the beginning years ago. “The song became sad because you couldn't find me,” John ventured, not quite believing.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, going very still from where he was perched on John's lap.

John opened his eyes and saw an unfamiliar glint in Sherlock's eyes. He blinked and realized that it was desire and anxiousness all balled up into one volatile package named Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate and partner. In that moment he realized that Sherlock wasn't fibbing, that he had been searching for John, that John was somehow _special_ to him. He didn't know the how or the why, but he knew that he trusted the brilliant man hovering over him with everything that he had.

John dropped his hands. “I've always loved your song,” he murmured. “Will you play for me?”

Sherlock dove forward as if to capture the doctor's lips before he was denied again. After a brief but intense kiss, he drew back, his wild hair a mess, and vowed, “Always.”

Sherlock made love like he played the violin. His brain never stopped moving, neither did his hands, always rushing at a frenetic pace so quickly that John just couldn't keep up. He didn't even try, most of the time, and let Sherlock do what he wished. Which was how he ended up stark naked on his very own bed with Sherlock standing above him, fully dressed, his violin in his hands again.

Unsure of what to do with his hands, but not very self-conscious of his bare body, John folded his hands behind his head and watched Sherlock emerge from the shadows into the weak London light streaming through his dusty window pane. “Will your song be sad anymore?” John asked, thinking of all the mournful nights he suffered through over the years and the still aching hole in his chest. He desired to hear the happy and hopeful song again, but after years of disappointment was still unsure of what might come in the future.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Never. Not as long as you are around.” He then lifted his bow to his string and _played._

John had never heard anything like it. In comparison, the song that he had first heard while in Afghanistan was hesitant and childish. The hope that it contained had been naïve and unsure, as though the person playing the song had been afraid that the rug would be pulled out from under him at any moment. The hope in the song had been easily crushed and replaced by sadness and grief.

The song that welled around John at that moment was so much _more_ than it had been that it overwhelmed the doctor. It swelled and crested with such assured happiness and possession that John had a lump swell in his throat and he felt that he could barely breathe.

“I can't believe that you were here all along,” Sherlock breathed, the violin soaring above and beyond his voice.

Each note, each trill and run of scales sent sensations shuddering along John's skin. A high pitched note sent his hair on end, a low crooning note caused him to shudder and for heat to pool in his gut, a warbling middle note made his toes twitch and a quick run of scales sending the violin's song as high as it could go made him breathless. Sherlock was making him fall apart without a single touch.

Sweat pooled on his skin making him shiver and twitch under the musical onslaught. He wanted to touch, wanted to hold. But instead he twisted his hands in the sheets above his head and struggled to hold on. His arousal had him burning for touch, had his erection straining into the air and his eyelids clenched furiously shut. He couldn't handle it, he was going to come undone he needed Sherlock heneededneededneeded—

“Wait,” Sherlock said.

The violin keened, stretching out a long note for as long as Sherlock could hold it. Sherlock could hold it forever, for an eternity. Every muscle in John's body was tensed and holding him as taut as Sherlock's very own bowstrings. His flatmate—no, his lover—had him stretched and desperate, he played him as well as his instrument and knew he was close.

The note died slowly, ringing in the air.

John dropped out of his arch, falling to the sticky sheets panting. He was close. _So_ close. He just needed—

Sherlock dropped bodily on top of him, a hot and slender hand curving around his erection. Somehow he had become naked, but John didn't care when or how. He only wanted Sherlock, he needed Sherlock, he had to come he needed to touch but his fingers were hopelessly tangled in the bedspread and his muscles were quivering. John became aware that he was desperately murmuring aloud.

“Pleasepleaseplease—Oh God, please. Just....”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured. He mouthed at John's neck and ground his hardness into the doctor's hip. “I've got you, just let go now.”

His fingers danced along John's erection like the strings on his violin, and suddenly John couldn't hold on any longer.

“Ahh!” His climax rushed out of him so fast it was like being hit in the gut. He wanted to fold in half and protect himself, it was so intense, but Sherlock's firm weight rested upon him so he couldn't. Their slick skin slotted together perfectly—like they were meant together, and, above the blood rushing in his ears and his desperate gasping, John heard Sherlock moan as his release splattered onto John's skin.

“Mine,” Sherlock groaned.

John drew his shaky arms down and slid his palms up Sherlock's arms and around his back, sliding through the sweat dripping down his spine. He smoothed his fingers across the slick skin and held his lover close. He enjoyed the weight grounding him and the hot breath puffing across his skin. “Does this mean I won't hear the sad song in my dreams anymore?”

John felt Sherlock smirk against his neck and the hole in his chest seemed to shrink a little.

“No,” Sherlock answered. “I don't believe you will.”

“Good, you sulk enough during the daytime anyways.”

Sherlock's laughter rang out in the dusty little room and set something aflame in John's heart. “That I do, John. That I do.”

FIN


End file.
